Overstimulation
by Evanescent Cumberbabe
Summary: Why does Sherlock always take a cab? A prompt fill, details inside. Set before ASiP when Sherlock is about college age. I promise it is better than it sounds. No pairings. (Crappy summary is crappy.)


**A/N: Hey! So, this is my first published fic and I really hope you guys like it! I got it from a headcannon that said, "Mycroft set up accounts with the London cab companies so that they would bill him for Sherlock's cab fares. This was done after Sherlock collapsed on the Tube from overstimulation." This was self-Beta'd, so any grammatical or spelling mistakes are mine. Please leave reviews, as constructive criticism is welcome (just no flaming, please!). Thanks to my friends for reading this when it was just a rough draft and for giving me advice on how to improve it, I love you guys! Hope everybody likes it!**

**Disclaimer: "Sherlock" and any familiar characters or storylines belong to the wonderful and talented Moftiss and the estate of ACD, I'm just borrowing them. :)**

Sherlock hated the Tube. He hated the stench of hundreds of people all squeezed into one tiny tin can underneath six meters of cement and dirt (a combination of hot breath, unwashed human, and general despair). He hated the crowds; the writhing mass of humanity (insects, the lot of them) all pressed together, trapping him in a prison of sweating flesh and jostling bodies. But above all, he hated the noise.

He hated the yammering voices of the people around him, always opening their mouths to spew forth some inconsequential drivel, never thinking before they spoke (why couldn't people just _think). _He hated the high-pitched squeal of the train's breaks as it came to a screeching halt. He hated the scratchy voices that came on over the ancient speaker system, the grating voice that announced a seemingly never-ending list of arrivals and departures and changes.

He wouldn't even have to be here of it weren't for Mycroft. Fat, stupid Mycroft who had cancelled his credit card and cut him off from the family funds in a pathetic attempt to put an end to his drug use and get Sherlock to come crawling back to him and beg for help, for forgiveness that was not readily forthcoming. Sherlock snorted in contempt; the only thing Mycroft had succeeded in doing was restricting his brother's methods of travel, since he had no means to pay for a cab and he was saving the last bit of his cash for a rainy day (or a day when his mind became too stagnant to bear without the aid of a chemical stimulant to relieve him, whichever came first). But Sherlock was resourceful and resilient. What Mycroft didn't realize was that not everybody needed the creature comforts that the government official had come to rely on. Stupid Mycroft. Stupid, thick, dense Mycroft who was probably sitting in his office right now filling his fat face with cake.

Sherlock allowed himself a small smile it the undignified mental image, the pulled his thin jacket tighter around his scrawny frame. It wasn't properly winter yet, although the air did contain a certain nip that the collective body heat of the crowd around him couldn't quite banish. It was the chilly weather that had Sherlock waiting for the Tube in the first place, since he didn't want to walk halfway across London to meet his friend (although dealer may be a more accurate term). He might detest Mycroft and do whatever he could to inconvenience him, but he wasn't too keen on contracting hypothermia just to spite his brother.

It was at that moment that the crowd, who had been milling about for the last twenty minutes, surged across the platform and into the waiting subway car whose doors slid shut after the last few stragglers.

Sherlock felt the familiar tightening of his chest, as if a giant hand was slowly squeezing all the air from his lungs, as he was roughly and unceremoniously shoved to the side of the enclosed space. He clenched his fists and closed his eyes as he tried to enter his mind palace in an attempt to escape the suffocating confines of the people pressed against him.

But he couldn't access it, he couldn't picture the sprawling grounds or the ornate wooden doors that lead to his haven. Instead, all he could hear was the unintelligible murmuring of the people close to him (close, too close, go away!) and all he could see was the closed off faces surrounding him bathed in a pallid yellow light. It's all crowding in, too much, too many details at once, there isn't time to process everything, to file away and discard information as he deemed it relevant and necessary. It's all coming closer, too close, invading his head and pressing on the backs of his eyes. He's dimly aware of his shortening, ;abored breaths that are too shallow to do much good (_I'm hyperventilating, _he thinks in some distant corner of his mind that wasn't that wasn't currently being overrun with panic). All of a sudden, a wave of crushing blackness descends on him and he barely registers the blunt force of his head connecting with a hard object and he distantly hears surprised exclamations before losing consciousness completely.

He wakes up to the steady sound of a heart monitor and the itchy sensation of a hospital gown against his skin. His mind feels sluggish as he tries to take stock of his situation and remember exactly what had happened on the subway. Squinting his eyes to maintain the illusion of sleep, he slowly becomes aware of another presence in the room with him.

"I know you're awake," came a lofty voice from a corner of the room. Sherlock sighed and opened his eyes to look fully at the British government sitting (somewhat uncomfortably) on a standard-issue hospital chair. Mycroft's usually impassive gaze rests on his younger brother with an uncharacteristic amount of concern that mad Sherlock's empty stomach clench uncomfortably. His brother hadn't looked at him like that since he had dropped out of uni to become a "street urchin" (as Mycroft had so eloquently put it), and the mere facial expression dredged up a plethora of memories that Sherlock didn't particularly feel like reliving right now (especially with his brain working at less than optimal performance at the moment) and caused him to blurt the first thought that came to his befuddled brain.

"Oh don't pretend to care, Mycroft, you know how dull it makes these little family reunions," Sherlock finally broke the silence with a flippant remark.

Mycroft only sighed and replied, "Well, I can see that you're feeling better," as he slowly heaved himself from his seat and made his way to the door, Sherlock watched him with an inscrutable, icy gaze that masked emotions that he couldn't put a name to (sorrow, regret?).

Before leaving the room, Mycroft turned and said to his little brother, "You won't have to ride the Tube again."

**A/N: Thanks for reading! Now go, my lovelies, and review!**


End file.
